and the fire and the rose are one
by Ruadhnait
Summary: Maedhros and Galadriel Exchange Viewpoints on Fëanor, his legacy, and life in general.


I watch Maitimo as he moves his forefinger over the map- from Hithlum to Doriath, to Himlad and the plains beyond. "East Beleriand," he murmurs, then raises his head suddenly and says sharply, "That's where we plan to go."

"Would that be you and your brothers' plan," I say quietly, "or yours?"

"Both," and he shrugs a little, laughing more briefly than I would like. "Plenty of room there, enough to be rid of each others' presences for a while, and it's far enough away from here- and Doriath. Of course," he adds quickly, "I mean to keep a close eye on all of them."

"I certainly hope you do," I say, turning to face the window. "They take after your father."

"Of course we do. We _are_ his sons, Alatáriel. You must remember this." They are, and perhaps too much so. Even in Maitimo, who is so much like his mother, there remains that Fëanorian arrogance, Fëanorian incorrigibility, Fëanorian cruelty. I fear for our future in Beleriand and relations with Elwë, quite honestly. I hated their father- hated as only a Ñoldo can hate- and now that he is dead, I had hoped to escape his shadow.

He's watching me intently. "Alatáriel," he says. "Where do you plan to go?"

I let my fingers trail across the windowsill, then drop limply to my side. "I do not know," I say at last. "I will stay with Findaráto. He wants lands in the south, near the sea."

He nods. "The soil there is fertile."

"And Doriath," I continue. "Most assuredly Doriath. I think it would be wise to stay there- you know, and speak for our kin if trouble arises. You know as well as I do that that is well within the realm of the possible. And I want Elwë to know that not all of our kin are mad." I have let loose there more than I would have liked to, but Maitimo is strangely unperturbed.

"Yes. I see." Then, unexpectedly, "Alatáriel, it is not a matter of _if_ trouble arises but _when_ it does. You know how my brothers are…and I too really. You must be bewildered," he laughs wearily, "to see me playing the diplomat in these past weeks and months. It won't last. I am still his son. I know Findecáno, for one, looks forward to a period of peace and brotherhood. I will take the peace and leave the brotherhood, if I may. All I can really hope for at this point is a sort of peaceful separation, a polite distance with communications kept to the minimum…" He is right, of course, and speaks with something bewilderingly like humility for one of Fëanor's sons.

"Your actions over those said months have been remarkably tactful," I tell him. "I do not think we have come again to blows."

"No, but we were never more than a skin away from that," he rejoins. "We won't last."

"Do you think so?" I say softly.

"Yes." He's impatient now, even irritated. "We're divided-"

I laugh bitterly. "Can't deny that."

"-divided," he continues, and with an enemy far greater than we could ever hope to defeat, even unified. We can't stand."

I am beginning to be angry with my cousin's fey imaginings. "I did not come here to hear those words," I tell him sharply. "I- _we _- are more than that…Maitimo, I hated your father. I won't listen to him now, won't believe that he can still rule our lives. I won't give him that." Maitimo smiles softly, and idly traces the eight-pointed star carved on the corner of the table.

"Don't you see it, Alatáriel? Don't you see that he's still among us? His influence is still very strong, his spirit is alive and well, and as his son, I know this."

"He is not long dead," I protest. "His memory will fade. We will forget him. Those who come after us will forget him."

He shrugs. "That is as it may be. For this here and now, and I might add, Alatáriel, that those who come after us will forget us too- for this here and now, this lifetime, this Age, he is still with us. We owe this- that we are here, and building a kingdom- to him."

I shake my head. "I do not want to give him that." And I do not.

He turns away from me, and then swings back to face me suddenly. "Alatáriel, don't you see that my father is- was- the greatest of our people?" I do not answer that, and he continues, "You know how he was. His fire was more than the pride of a mere Ñoldo. It was something more- primitive, if you will, and striving with the Gods." He pauses, as though searching for the right words. "He was my father. He was my beginning, and he will be my consummation. I know this." He looks up at me. "In a way, he's all we could hope to be. Our glory, as a people, and our legacy, will be inseparable from his fire. He brought us to this," he says, "and it's because of him we'll fall. It is this," he says almost placidly, joining me by the window, "that he knew, and I knew, and my brothers knew, when we swore the Oath. Our lives," he says softly, "are his."

I cannot speak for a while. This is not the one who laid his crown at my uncle's feet, and begged forgiveness for the wrongs done to my kin.

This is not the one turned so bewilderingly conciliatory, willing, as it seemed then, to humble his pride and work for our unity and good. Of course it's not. This is Maitimo, son of Fëanáro, born to set Arda alight with his father's fire of vengeance and his sleepless curse. And this is the son of my mortal enemy, the one with whom I will never ally myself, and whose words I refuse, absolutely refuse to accept.

I tell him so. "I will not accept that," I say, my voice shaking. "I do not take your father as my king. I will not believe that we cannot make something more of ourselves than his curse."

I leave him there, still lost in his thoughts, and stroking, stroking the hilts of his sword. Outside, the air is chill, with icy gusts of wind tearing at the sparse and stunted trees. The westering sun is sinking low in the sky and turning lake, hills, town red as fire, red as blood.

**If anyone is wondering about the title, it's the final line from _Four Quartets_ by T.S. Eliot. I'm sure Eliot had something completely different in mind when he wrote it, but it seems to suit my theme admirably. The rose- a thing of complexity, of beauty, signifying here the glory of the Ñoldor- is inextricably intertwined with fire, with Fëanor. Galadriel, understandably, does not take kindly to this.**

**Anyway…**

**Reviews are much appreciated!**


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